


Open Book

by Sholio



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Post-Canon, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-31 23:04:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sholio/pseuds/Sholio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal, after the anklet. For my h/c bingo square "captivity".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Open Book

**Author's Note:**

> I actually finished writing this before last night's episode, then got sucked into writing an episode tag so it took me awhile to get this edited!

The anklet comes off on a Wednesday. Middle of the workweek, Neal thinks irrelevantly. It should at least be a Friday for proper commemorative purposes. But maybe it's just as well that his time with the FBI ends in the same low-key way that it began.

There's no official recognition, but Neal notices Peter sneaking glances at him all day. It's near quitting time when Peter plants a hand in the small of Neal's back and quietly steers him into one of the smaller conference rooms. Here he finds Elizabeth beaming and hovering over a cake. That was neatly done; he'd been making an effort not to be _too_ observant just on the off chance someone was planning something, but he still had no idea she was here. She must have snuck in the back.

Diana and Jones slip in, along with a handful of other agents who've been there since the beginning. Neal, feeling strange and self-conscious, puts his foot up on a chair and Peter, with a certain amount of ceremony, unlocks the anklet for the last time.

It feels very strange not having it there.

"Congratulations," Jones says, shaking his hand and grinning. "There were times when I didn't think you'd make it."

There's more friendly teasing, more congratulations. Elizabeth cuts the cake and Peter pours champagne, and Neal has to put on his smiling con face because he's feeling increasingly trapped. Or maybe it's the opposite of being trapped; it's the terrible, oppressive feeling of not knowing what's going to happen next. For the last four years he's had his days mapped out for him: five days of work, two days of weekend, in a two-mile radius. And before that, for four years he was in prison. Eight years is a really long time. He had no idea that freedom -- _true_ freedom, not running and not being chased -- was going to feel this terribly daunting.

He hasn't realized he's drifted over to the window, away from the group, until Peter appears at his elbow, making him jump.

"You look thoughtful," Peter says. "Should I worry?"

"Just thinking about what to do next." Which has the advantage of being true.

Peter doesn't quite look at him. He's looking down and away in the way that means he's a little embarrassed, which means Neal can guess the gist of what he's going to say and the trapped feeling gets worse, like Peter's crowding him into the corner and he can't get away.

"You know," Peter says carefully, "you'll always have a place here, if you want it."

"I know," Neal says.

"And if you need any help sorting things out -- El has contacts at a lot of the galleries, and if you need references to get into anywhere, any colleges or art institutes, you know I'll always --"

"Peter," Neal says, and Peter finally looks at him. "I don't want to make any decisions yet, all right? This is my _life_. I need time to think about it. I don't want to make the same mistakes I made last time," he adds, because he speaks very fluent Peter after four years and he needs to get Peter off that topic, needs him off it _now_ , and knows exactly what buttons to push to accomplish that.

"I know, I know. That's good thinking." Peter smiles at him. "No hasty decisions."

"Nope."

The party breaks up shortly after. Elizabeth hugs him. Peter asks if he wants a ride home.

"Not tonight. I need to clear my head."

"I was thinking," Peter says, and then adds hastily, "-- not tonight, of course, because you probably have plans -- radius-free plans -- but if you wanted to come over tomorrow night, or Friday, maybe ..."

"That sounds great," Neal says, and Peter grins -- _beams,_ really, which is a little alarming. "Why don't we work it out later this week?"

"Yeah, let's do that." Peter is still watching him, and Neal thinks this has got to be weirder for Peter than it is for him. For eight years Peter's known exactly where he was at all times. As soon as Neal walks out the door tonight, Peter isn't going to know anymore.

"'Bye," Neal says, and Peter gives him a little wave. Neal doesn't stop to take anything from his desk. There's not really anything he wants to keep.

That oppressive sense of uncertainty continues to dog him all the way back uptown. Mozzie's not around, even though he knows what tonight is; Mozzie has a finely honed sense of when to back off. Neal knows he should go out to dinner -- somewhere he couldn't before, somewhere outside his radius. Hell, the thought is starting to dawn on him that he could get on a train and go up the valley -- go to Poughkeepsie for dinner, what a ridiculous thought ... or go somewhere even farther, all the way up to Boston or down to DC, just because he can.

Instead he eats a quiet takeout dinner in the privacy of his apartment. By the time he's done the walls feel too near, too heavy. 

He looks around. Thinks about it. And then he goes to one particular painting where he stores his bug-out bag, as Mozzie calls it. ID and passport, cash, everything he needs to just take off. Except, he realizes even as he pulls it out, he doesn't need that anymore. All he has to do is buy a ticket in his own name. No watch lists. No suspicious security guards.

He doesn't even know what that is supposed to feel like. It hasn't been this way since he was nineteen. He realizes that his hands are shaking, and he doesn't know if this is freedom or its opposite.

A soft knock at the door startles him out of his reverie. By long habit, he starts to put the bag back, then realizes he doesn't have to and leaves it on the bed. So what if it looks like he's about to leave? People can do that. Most people just get on a plane and go places.

He'd half expected Peter, but instead it's June, who hugs him. "I understand congratulations are in order," she says.

"Something like that," Neal says, and she pulls back and looks at him. She of all people understands him now, he thinks. Even Mozzie doesn't really have a clue.

"I suspect you're thinking of getting out of town."

Neal smiles a little. "Was it that obvious?"

"I think you'd be a fool not to." She hugs him again. "But know you'll always have a place here."

"Byron's suits --"

"They're yours now. Take them if you like. Leave them here if you don't want to be burdened."

In the end he takes a couple of his favorites, just what he can fit in a suitcase. It's been a long time since he lived out of a bag. Well, he has money. Anything he needs, he can buy where he's going.

Wherever that is.

He looks around the apartment and finds that, as in the White Collar office, there's nothing he particularly wants to take with him.

Then he calls Mozzie.

"I was expecting you'd be celebrating," Mozzie says, sounding surprised. "Or hanging about with suits until all hours."

"I was actually wondering if you felt like going on a trip."

 

***

 

He travels. And it feels _wonderful._

He still can't quite get over some of his old habits. Navigating airport security using an ID with his real name on it never ceases to be nerve-wracking. He and Mozzie usually travel on separate flights by long-standing cautionary habit.

But the ability to go anywhere in the world he wants, with no one saying he can't and neither Interpol nor the local police bothering him, is an indescribable feeling. He visits some old favorites -- Paris, Florence, Monaco, Tokyo. He spends a few pleasant days with Sara in London. He goes to cities where he's never been: Mumbai, Manila, Johannesburg, Auckland.

In Brisbane he catches up with Alex, who wants his help on a particular heist she's planning. And he does it, and it's fun, and Alex gets away with the rich old lady's jewels she had her eye on. But in the end there's something kind of empty about it. He's all too aware that he's risking this newly discovered freedom for ... he's not really sure what for, honestly. The payoff doesn't seem worth the risk anymore. He doesn't mind helping out Mozzie with a job every now and then, for old times' sake, and of course he's got those skills to fall back on if the money from the U-boat job ever runs out. In general, though, he thinks his jewel-thief days might be over.

But he misses the excitement -- the anticipatory thrill of planning a heist, the adrenaline rush of getting away with it. He's not quite sure what to replace it with. He spends seven or eight months experimenting with various extreme sports -- to Mozzie's vocally expressed disapproval. He goes scuba diving in shark-infested waters, kayaks whitewater rivers and finds out that he's really good at rock climbing.

In the end he gets the need for excitement out of his system after one too many near-death experiences and ends up spending the next couple of years doing what might loosely be construed as finding himself. He paints on remote mountaintops, volunteers in a medical clinic for war refugees, and holds art classes for children in remote villages.

In the middle of all of this, June has a heart attack and he and Mozzie rush back to New York. She's going to be all right, but it's unexpectedly good to see her again. And it's strange to be back after what he realizes with some amazement is three going on four years; stranger still to realize that New York feels _small_ to him now. Confining. It's hard to shake the emotional resonance of four years on a two-mile radius, he supposes. There's a part of him that wants to look up Peter and Elizabeth and the rest of the old White Collar gang. He suspects that Peter would try to make a party out of it, get everyone together at the bar where they used to sometimes go for drinks after work, maybe turn the conversation around to what Neal's doing with his life now and whether he might consider coming back to work for the FBI -- and, just, no. He likes his life. He's happy enough to close that chapter of it.

 

***

 

But being back in New York made him realize that he's tired of wandering. He's ready to settle down somewhere for a while. He's just not sure exactly where.

He ends up trying London for a while, because it's big enough to be interesting but doesn't have the bad connotations that New York does. And Sara's there, and she's always happy to see him.

He's surprised, though, to find that after the past couple of years spent mostly in rural places, he finds himself more interested in taking day trips to the countryside than enjoying all the cultural attractions London has to offer. Several times he comes back to a particular small town a convenient train ride from the city, and eventually, just to see what it's like, he buys a house there.

"Won't your visa be an issue?" Sara asks, but Neal just raises his eyebrows at her. "Right. Forgot who I was talking to."

It's nothing at all like what he thought his life would be, but he really likes it. He can go up to the city if he gets a yearning for an art museum or a good restaurant, and otherwise, it's peaceful and quiet and undemanding. He takes long walks, paints flowers and fields, and makes local friends. It's surprisingly easy to make friends when he's not hiding everything about himself. He does cultivate a certain "man of mystery" air. As far as anyone in town knows, he was an American of modest means who came into some unexpected wealth, spent some time traveling and then decided to settle down. Which is not at all untrue; it's just not the _whole_ truth.

He starts writing on a whim, mostly because he _does_ get a little bored on days when he's tired of painting. His initial idea is to write his memoirs, but he quickly realizes that he'd have to fictionalize everything to the point where it's unrecognizable anyway, and before he knows it, he's writing actual fiction -- mostly about a thief who solves crimes.

"It's been done," Mozzie says, affecting boredom, but Neal thinks he's just jealous because he didn't think of it first.

Neal's initial efforts are, he knows, not that great, but after a while he finishes a novel, and shows it to some of his local artist friends and they like it, so he starts looking for a literary agent. Sara is able to hook him up with some people. It's a little disconcerting for Neal, though, that they don't immediately tumble all over themselves at the brilliance of his writing. He's finally managed to find something that he's not the best at. He's not even one of the best at it. He's actually kind of mediocre at it, and that's humbling.

But he keeps trying, and produces another version of the novel that's better, and this time he's able to get some agents interested. What really amazes him is that he's actually enjoying the whole process, even the parts that are boring and the parts he's not that good at. It's a new challenge, an adventure, something he's never tried before, and that makes it fun.

Maybe when he gets bored with novels, he'll have to try something else entirely new. Medicine, maybe. Or a musical career.

"You know, we don't have to go through all this," Mozzie points out. "We have enough money that we could just get five hundred thousand copies printed up, send it to all the bookstores, do some signings --"

"No, Moz. If I'm going to do this, I'm going to do it right."

And the novel finds a publisher. Neal opts to publish it under the pseudonym Nelson Cage; no sense drawing a huge neon sign pointing at himself, after all. And it does sell, but it's nothing like a runaway bestseller. His publisher tells him that it's not doing badly for a first novel, especially a genre novel, and they are interested in more books in the series. Neal supposes it's a learning experience to actually work as hard as he can at something and not have it be a fantastic success.

Mozzie offers to make it a bestseller by buying up a few thousand copies. "Or a few tens of thousands, depending on how high up the bestseller list you want to go. I'll be discreet. I'll use disguises and different addresses."

In a way it's flattering that Moz is trying to make his venture a success, but -- no. If he's going to do well at this, he wants to do it right. Mozzie thinks he's trying to prove a point, but Neal is pretty sure the only point he's proving is to himself.

But the next book does better, well enough that his publisher has him do some book signings. The very first of these is at a tiny bookshop in his hometown, and it's pouring rain. The only people who show up are some of his local friends. The bizarre thing, Neal muses, is that Mozzie's right. If he'd set out to do this as a proper con, he could have set himself up as a best-selling author; he could be doing sellout signings by now and having magazines court him for interviews.

And yet he's having just as much fun hanging around in a little bookshop chatting with people he knows. Life's weird that way.

And it gets even weirder when he looks up from his signing table and sees that two people have just entered the store and are shaking off their umbrellas. He knows them, but it's so deeply disconcerting that he has to stare for a moment before he's sure that, yes, it _is_ Peter and Elizabeth Burke, and they're approaching his table.

"I suppose I need to get a book signed, don't I?" Peter says. He swipes one off the pile and places it in front of Neal.

Neal starts to write _Nelson Cage_ and then hesitates over the initial "N". "I'd like to point out that having a pseudonym is perfectly acceptable in the literary world."

"I'm not going to arrest you for signing a fake name," Peter says, wryly amused. "Unless you're doing something I _should_ arrest you for."

Neal thinks briefly of immigration regulations which may have been greased a bit, and tries to look innocent. As usual, this makes Peter look even _more_ suspicious.

"We loved the book," Elizabeth says quickly.

"You've read it?" Neal asks. He's not quite sure how to feel about that.

"We've read both of them," Elizabeth says. "They're wonderful, Neal; I had no idea you had such talent for writing."

"Even though there's something slightly familiar about 'Nick' and his adventures," Peter says.

"All artists draw inspiration from life, Peter."

"And I can't help thinking there's something even _more_ familiar about the cop who helps Nick solve his cases." His mouth twists a bit on the last part.

"Hey, that cop is smart," Neal says. "Almost as smart as Nick."

"Neal," Elizabeth inserts smoothly, "we were wondering if we could take you to dinner to celebrate your new novel."

He'd actually had plans to go down to a local pub with some of his artist friends from town. And for just a moment, he hesitates, because this evening is likely to become very awkward and there's a part of him that wants to leave it here. They're happy for him, he's happy for him, and this would be a nice place for a mutually pleasing goodbye, a graceful swan song for his New York life.

... except, he realizes a moment later, they're in _England_ , which means they flew across an ocean just to see him. And there's a disconcerting amount of gray in Peter's hair, another reason it took Neal longer than it should have to recognize him. Peter, at first glance, looks _old_ , which is unnerving. Neal has to count back and realizes it's been eight years since he last saw them. Peter's approaching sixty. He can't quite wrap his mind around it.

He might actually not have that much time left to see them.

"Sure," he says, trying to look enthusiastic. "That'd be nice."

 

***

 

But it actually _is_ nice. The awkwardness he'd worried about never materializes. He'd thought there wouldn't be anything to talk about, now that there aren't FBI cases anymore, but he'd somehow forgotten that finding things to talk about is never a problem he and Peter have had. And there are eight years to catch up on -- eight years of world adventures he can actually admit to (well, most of them), eight years of Peter's new probies and amusing stories of utterly ridiculous criminals. Diana's son is in the fourth grade, and Jones is married now with twin girls who just turned a year old.

Elizabeth has been fairly quiet, and when Peter leaves to use the toilet, she toys with her napkin for a moment before going right for the throat in that peculiarly gentle yet sharp-edged Elizabeth way. 

"It really hurt him that you left without saying goodbye," she says, eyes raised to meet his. "But I think it hurt more that, in all these years, you never tried to get in touch."

"I didn't mean to hurt anyone." He almost leaves it there -- almost. But it's been such a nice evening and he doesn't want to leave a shadow hanging over it. He's left too many things broken behind him in his life. "Elizabeth, I'm grateful to Peter -- and to you -- for all you did for me. I'll always be grateful. But that chapter of my life is closed now. I had to get out of New York, go out in the world and see who I was going to be."

"And Peter wouldn't have let you do that?" Her voice is quiet, not judging. Just wondering.

"He wouldn't have meant to," Neal says, working his way slowly through things he hasn't thought about in eight years -- except obliquely, approaching sideways through "Nick", the dashing art thief in the novels. "But I know he would have liked me to stay, to keep on at the FBI in some way, and -- he doesn't have to _mean_ to, Elizabeth. I've never been good at saying no to Peter. If I hadn't left when I did, I don't think I would've ever left. And I had to."

She reaches across the table and squeezes his hand. "I understand," she says quietly, and he thinks she might. Elizabeth has always understood more about him than Peter ever did. They have more in common, he thinks, than either will admit to. "But I think you should give Peter just a little more credit. He wants what's best for you, you know."

"Among other things," Neal says.

"Among other things," El agrees with a rueful smile.

They're both quiet, thinking this over, when Peter gets back to the table. He looks worried. "Conspiring behind my back?"

"A lady never tells," Elizabeth says, hooking her fingers through Peter's. "Neal, I really hate to cut the evening short, but we probably should be going. We have to be up very early in the morning for our flight back."

"Flight back?" Neal asks, thrown. He'd assumed they were staying for a few days at least.

"Yeah," Peter says, "I have to be back at work on Monday, and El has a thing."

"Wait." Neal's still having trouble wrapping his head around it. "You flew to _England_ for one day just to go to my book signing?"

"We've been thinking we need to travel more," Elizabeth says.

"Well, yes, but --" It's the same kind of feeling he got when all the most prestigious London literary agencies turned down his novel -- a kind of humbleness that he thinks is probably good for him. That Peter and Elizabeth might drop by to go to his book signing as part of a trip to London ... that would have made sense to him. But they must have taken a red-eye flight to London, driven out to this little town, only to turn around and head straight back -- trying to understand that means having to rework his entire self-image into the sort of person that people do things like that _for._

"We have a hotel in town," Elizabeth said. "A very nice little bed and breakfast. Would you like to walk back with us?"

So he does. The rain has stopped. Neal points out a few sights, although there isn't really much to see in the dark. Eventually Peter and El drop behind, talking quietly. Neal has a feeling the topic of conversation is himself.

Outside the bed and breakfast, there's a moment of hesitant uncertainty when no one seems to know quite what to say. "Oh, we checked in online but I should really make sure everything's in order," Elizabeth says, and ducks inside, leaving Peter and Neal alone.

"Subtle," Neal says. Peter fidgets and Neal can tell Peter is working up to saying something. He thinks about just saying goodnight and walking away. It would be the easiest thing. He's not sure why he doesn't, except that maybe he's finally learned _easy_ isn't always _best._

"El," Peter says at last, "apparently got the idea from somewhere that you thought I was going to make you stay in New York."

"I doubt that's exactly what she said."

"Paraphrased," Peter said. "Neal, I don't know what gave you the idea --"

"It's not that," Neal interrupts him. "It's not -- not what you're thinking. You remember that day at the airfield, don't you?"

It's been over a decade, but Peter doesn't have to ask what day or what airfield. "Yeah."

"And you remember why I didn't say goodbye to you."

The corner of Peter's mouth quirks, a little sadly. "It was a different situation then."

"I know, but you've always been ..." This is the crux of the problem, but he _can't_ explain it and he never could -- he's never known what it is about Peter that makes him throw common sense away.

Peter's waiting. Patient. Quiet.

"I know you wouldn't have tried to make me stay," Neal says softly. "You'd never have made me do anything. But you would've asked, and I would have said yes. And I think I might have liked it ... For a little while. But I can see one day at the FBI turning into another day, until I'm fifteen years older and there's a whole world I've never seen, a whole life I've never lived."

"Is that what you think of me?" Peter's tone is hard to read. Not angry, but ... something. Hurt, maybe.

"No," Neal says quickly. "Not at all. That's _your_ life, Peter. You're good at it and it makes you happy. And I enjoyed it when I was doing it, but it never really was my life. It was yours and I was a guest in it, and I didn't mind, but I had to get out and find _my_ life eventually."

There's a long pause he still isn't sure how to read, and then Peter smiles a little, the same smile as always, even though there are a few more lines around it now, a few more creases at the corners of his eyes. "Neal, there's only one question I need to know the answer to. Being here, doing this, writing books and living in this little town -- does it make you happy?"

"Yes," Neal says, and it almost surprises him to find that this is a true answer, true and complete down to the bottom of his soul. At some point Elizabeth's come back -- he's not sure exactly when -- and she's watching them with her hands in her jacket pockets, looking pleased.

"That's all I want. All I've ever wanted." And Peter hugs him, sudden and hard. For some reason it always surprises him when Peter hugs him. Peter holds on for a long time without letting go, then finally, reluctantly pushes him away. "I guess we ought to get to bed."

"Wait," Neal says. He feels like he's teetering on the edge of a decision he can't take back -- but they already know where he lives; what's he got left to lose? "Don't spend the night here. I've got room. I can cover the cost of the B&B. Come on back to my place. There's a great little breakfast place around the corner ..."

He trails off, uneasily feeling like he's just laid his heart out somewhere he doesn't want to put it.

"We wouldn't be putting you out?" Peter asks.

"It's got three bedrooms. It's a nice house. I think you'd like it." And he never realized it before, but the house he bought for himself -- it _is_ a house Peter and Elizabeth would like, he thinks. A quiet little house with a rose garden -- he hires a neighbor to tend it -- and a little path and a pretty bay window. And he never really thought about the fact that he bought a house with so much room for guests.

He wants to show it to them and see what they think.

Peter takes Elizabeth's hand. He looks hopeful, and -- younger, like something heavy has lifted off him. 

"I think we'd like to see it," Elizabeth says for both of them.

 

***

 

They do like the house. It's too dark to properly show them the rose garden, but Elizabeth wanders around the house exclaiming over the decorations -- Neal's been collecting antiques. Peter is more interested in the computer on which Neal realizes that he left a chapter of his latest novel open in a document. "Hey," he says, shoving Peter away when Peter starts to read it. "Spoilers."

"Did I seriously just read what I think I just read?" Peter says. "Did you actually trap Nick and his cop friend in an airless comic-book vault?"

"It's not a comic-book vault at all, it's a jewelry vault. Very different," Neal says. "And it's a rough draft." 

"You should have Nick give up his life of crime," Peter suggests. "He's obviously not very good at it."

"Stop telling me how to write my books." The really depressing thing is that over the course of the first three novels, that's exactly what seems to be happening. He's only had Nick steal one item so far in book three, and Nick seems to be feeling guilty about it. Actually, before Peter and Elizabeth showed up tonight, he'd been thinking about having Nick's cop friend quit the police force so the two of them could open their own detective agency. Now he's worried that he might be giving Peter unnecessary fodder for future guilt trips.

Neal brings out wine, and they lounge around talking until Elizabeth finally begs off to go to bed. Then it's just him and Peter. What still amazes Neal is that it's like no time at all has passed, as if the last eight years were a moment and they worked their last case only yesterday. He keeps having to glance at the gray in Peter's hair to remind himself that it's been as long as it has.

Maybe he will have his fictional thief-detective partner up with his nemesis after all.

Maybe he'll see if the FBI might want a consultant, just once in a while, not as a regular thing, but maybe when he's in town ...

They crossed an ocean to see him, even after all this time. And maybe it's that or maybe it's the wine that makes him feel so warm, but tonight it seems as if anything's possible. 

"It can't really be two a.m.," Peter groans, checking the wall clock. (Neal likes _real_ clocks, clocks with hands. There's not a digital clock in the house except the one on the computer.) "I hate to cut this short, but El and I have to catch an early train to London."

"Forget the train, I'll drive you down. You know ..." Neal toys with his wineglass. "You could change your flight. Go back in a few days. I can show you all the best places the tourists don't know about."

Peter looks desperately tempted, but shakes his head. "I have work and El has a thing she probably shouldn't reschedule."

There's a long sleepy silence, a comfortable silence, until Peter says suddenly, "Remember when we stayed up all night and you told me about Adler?"

"I remember that you weren't feeling so great the next morning."

Peter laughs. "I wasn't the only one who was dragging."

"Good times," Neal says, joking, only to realize once the words are out of his mouth that he means it.

"Good days and bad ones," Peter says. He studies his mostly empty glass and clears his throat. "You know, if I did anything to make you think --"

"No," Neal says quickly. "No. It's not, it's just ... I had to figure some things out."

"And did you?"

"Yeah. I think so."

Later, after bidding Peter good night, he sinks into bed, still enveloped in that warm feeling. He's happy here, he is, but tonight it feels as if something he hadn't even realized was missing has slotted into place. The idea of going back to New York no longer makes him feel like he's walking back into prison, and he feels a strange, helpless gratitude toward the Burkes for being the ones to take the first step across the distance between them. Without even realizing it, he's spent a lot of time being afraid of things that never had any power over him. And now he feels like the last link of a chain has broken, a chain he didn't even realize was there.

It's funny, he thinks, how you can be forty-one and still figure things out about yourself.

It takes a while to learn how to be free.


End file.
